


An Inventory of Sins Lately Committed

by RedHorse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU: mid-19th century, AU: victorian-era, Bodice-ripping, Byronic broody dashing hero!Sirius, Ghosts, M/M, Romance, cross-dressing, happy endings, murder plots, rakehell behavior, sheltered but fiery!Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22517617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHorse/pseuds/RedHorse
Summary: Harry's parents have died, leaving him orphaned, an earldom, and a dozen unwelcome suitors. One of them is his godfather, Sirius Black.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Harry Potter
Comments: 55
Kudos: 222
Collections: Lightningstar Holiday Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Nella_miseria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nella_miseria/pseuds/Nella_miseria) in the [LightningstarHolidayFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/LightningstarHolidayFest) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> It's mid-19th century. Harry Potter is the typical sheltered but fiery bodice ripper heroine, who may or may not actually wear bodices and lives out in the country with his loving but somewhat absentminded parents Earl and Countess Potter, who die in a carriage accident and leave him dependent on an absentee Godfather.
> 
> Sirius Black is a rakehell who runs away from a dukedom only to be dragged back to it by the death of his childhood best friend. He now has to get used to the ghosts that haunt his past even as his present is haunted by beautiful green eyes alit with grief and passion.
> 
> Will they or won't they f**k and put the readers out of their misery? Spoiler alert: they will.
> 
> Victorian-era romance but with Sirry, and also magic. Pretty please. I just really like the idea of Sirius Black as the Byronic broody dashing hero of a bodice ripper. And sheltered but fiery Harry who is always angry but also really hot for his DILF-y Godfather. And comic relief Weasleys and Lovegoods who live in the same village or whatever as Harry and are the local gentry he grew up with. And Cedric Diggory as the staid but boring country suitor. And Draco as the skeevy cousin trying to off Sirius for his Dukedom and for Harry. This stuff is just writing itself.
> 
> **A/N:**
> 
> Anon, it did write itself. I read your prompt, exclaimed—reread it, googled “rakehell”—and I was sold. I hope you like it. Then I got tired of googling so all the bad representations of the Victorian English class system can be ascribed to “but they’re wizards.”
> 
> I tried to include everything you wanted, which if done properly, would have required about 50,000 more words than I had to give. I hope you can forgive me my trespasses and shortcomings. I’ll post the rest tomorrow. Probably.

“Harry,” Luna said gently, plucking at his sleeve. “It’s time to go.”

Harry lifted his head from the stiff, silk-embroidered pillow. Partially to look at Luna and partially because its prickly threads and lace offered no comfort.

“Must I?” he implored her. “If I don’t, they’ll never know.”

Luna sighed gustily and pinched his waist so hard he felt it even through a layer of stiff wool and whale bone. He leapt to his feet with a cry, scrambling to get away from her. Luna and her merciless pinches!

“You can’t pinch me,” Harry whined, much as he might have when they were five and suffered one of Luna’s first attacks. He rubbed the sore spot under his ribs and glowered at her. “You can’t pinch orphans!”

Luna didn’t look unsympathetic, but she wasn’t yielding either. “I can pinch orphans who make tasteless jokes about their dead parents,” she said evenly. “Come now Harry, don’t make me use my wand. You learned when we were in school that I’m better at magic than you; don’t make us both uncomfortable by making me remind you.”

Harry sighed, long-suffering, and followed her out of the drawing room.

Two of the family ghosts were drifting around in the foyer, put out. To Harry’s relief and their chagrin, his parents hadn’t the opportunity to opt into haunting the manor. The carriage accident that took their lives happened along the scenic cliffsides, well away from the magical entrapment of the house.

“Couldn’t they have had the decency to choke on a cashew in the reading room?” hissed the third Duchess of Peverell to the Late Knight. He nodded grimly with a theatrical sigh.

“Or murder one another inside the garden gate?” he mused, practically moaning. “That would have been  _ so _ romantic.”

Harry rolled his eyes, waving his arms to clear them like smoke. They burst out in complaints but the gesture, which Uncle Remus had taught him, was still an effective banishment. Suddenly eager to get out of the house, Harry charged toward the door.

Luna caught his arm. Harry looked at her, his eyes narrowed.

“You’re the one who just said we should go!”

“Yes, my love,” Luna said patiently. “But you may want to change first.”   
  


Harry looked down at the day gown he had been wearing all morning to try to cheer himself up. It hadn’t worked. He’d thought one benefit of his parents’ death might be that he could ramble about unfettered by propriety or the expectation that men generally  _not_ wear clothing involving a bodice or a skirt, but instead it just made him feel sadder. He’d never actually tested his parents’ open-mindedness, after all. They probably wouldn’t have cared at all what he wore. They’d been loving, deeply tolerant, barely mentioning the fact that four years from his debut, he was still unmarried. They’d been, in short, _perfect_. 

Harry looked at Luna in challenge. “Who says I’m not wearing this?”

She brightened. “Don’t think I’d stop you, except I believe it’s all supposed to be black?”

Harry plucked at the olive-green sleeve thoughtfully. “I think you’re right about that. And really, I don’t know if I want to draw any more attention than I have to,” he added, almost apologetically. “And it’s not that I mind men’s clothing,” he added. “It’s just something I’m trying.”

“Please don’t have an identity crisis right now,” Luna suggested, patting his arm. “We’re already going to be late.”

Harry changed into a standard, grim funeral-going suit. He wore his father’s long, black wool riding coat over it, the one with the stiff collar. If he turned his head a bit, he could smell his father’s scent in the lapel.

A groom in the yard held Harry’s horse by the reins, and Luna’s mare, still hitched to its two-wheeled cart, by the bridle.

“I wish we could take brooms,” he said sadly, lifting his foot toward the stirrup.

Luna stepped into the basket of the cart. “You know the Muggles don’t like it.”

Harry frowned reflexively but didn’t argue. Luna was right, though in the little country village of Dampenfield, wixes and Muggles lived in harmony. Why the Muggles didn’t want to be reminded of what they already knew—that the wixes were wixes—made little sense to Harry.

“How bad do you think it’s going to be?” Harry asked Luna as they walked their horses side by side toward the lane, already dreading being in near proximity to the unmarried segment of society. It had been bad enough when he was just the heir; now he had the title itself.

“Well, if it gets too out of hand, we can always circulate a rumor you’ve contracted that strain of non-lethal Dragonpox that behaves like Muggle syphilis.”

Harry was startled into a laugh. It hurt his chest and stung his tongue, like the mechanism for happiness in his body had already started to corrode.

“I might take you up on that.”

*

Sirius didn’t get the first owl, or the second. The third one only found him because he’d literally gone down a river without a paddle. 

Sirius had been at a rather notorious party on a significantly notorious yacht. Muggles had strange ways, and Sirius had delighted in learning everything about them, neatly infiltrating mostly-Muggle society and managing to move seamlessly from one party or home to the next, always a most-honored guest and rarely forced to go to bed alone.

At some point in the evening, anchored in the center of a wide and placid river, Sirius and the young man and woman whom he’d been hoping to lure to his state room, had instead toppled, giggling, into the life boat. As they’d retained two bottles of champagne and two glasses between them, they’d decided that launching the craft into the water was a necessary adventure. 

Indeed, the privacy and intimacy of a small, drifting boat beneath the starlight proved useful for Sirius’ purposes, and after a couple hours he’d coaxed his companions out of their underthings and taken onto his own shoulders the challenge of space constraints in a small boat. He considered the subsequent couplings a triumph of both seduction and physics.

Worn out by victory, he drifted off with one companion lying over each of his spread arms, awakening when the boat thudded gently against the shore and lodged itself in the silt. Even then, he was blinking in sleepy confusion at the beginnings of the sunrise when the third owl located him.

The owl landed on his chest and wasn’t cautious in the least with its talons, instead clutching hard at Sirius’ shirt and the vulnerable skill beneath. He woke with a strangled cry. Between Sirius and the owl, Sirius’ companions were terrified.

All other concerns fled though when Sirius read the letter.

James and Lily, dead. Harry, quite alive and now entirely Sirius’ responsibility.

Mixed feelings abounded, but he supposed there was nothing to do except grieve, and me might as well do it with company.

*

A funeral was a strange place to fall in love. But then, there was no suitable place to fall in love with the child of Sirius’ best and most beloved—if estranged and now-dead—best friend.

It probably wasn’t love, anyway, he thought, torn between the strange fluttering tightness in his chest at the sight of a boy who looked like James, but possibly even prettier, his brilliant green eyes red-rimmed. He was probably just traumatized by a combination of re-entering mostly-wizarding society and watching all the unattached men and women present decide whether they should pounce on Harry or Sirius.

Or maybe it was love, because Sirius was willing to tolerate all of their poorly-disguised condolences in turn and at length if it meant luring them away from Harry.

Harry, to whom he still hadn’t spoken; but when he found his way to his side, sandwiched between a small blond woman and a gaggle of red-headed young people who had to be Weasleys, Harry shocked Sirius by fixing him with a burning glare.

“I don’t need you, _thank you very much_ ,” he said coldly, and stalked off, his friends maintaining a boundary against all the hopeful suitors.

Sirius stared after him, open-mouthed.

No, it was love. It was definitely love.

*

Sirius reluctantly opened Grimmauld Place, which was, of course, in perfect sparkling condition, thanks to the efforts of the house elves, all of whom hated Sirius just as much as he recalled.

“Sir should have a party,” Kreacher said, eyes glimmering with deepest loathing. “Sir owes it to the people to pay honor to his title and good name. Sir has making up to do, as Sir has been dragging all his poor mother built, her beautiful reputation, through the mud and muck, gallivanting and fornicating—”

Sirius interjected hastily, dismayed by hearing any reference to fornication on Kreacher’s lips. “Yes, fine!” he said. Kreacher was shocked. Sirius was slightly shocked. But if he had a party, maybe Harry would come. He hadn’t worked up the nerve to call again at Godric’s Hollow, not after his first and second owls failed to return at all, much less with replies. He was going to reconsider his infatuation if he found out Harry had been AKing his owls.

*

“So, are you going to this party?” Ginny asked, lying across his bed. 

They’d exchanged clothes with one another, discovering to their mutual fascinated delight that they were almost the same size. But Harry was quickly growing disillusioned with the appeal of corsets and mutilayered skirts. Yes, the fabric felt nice when he kicked it about his legs, but he couldn’t fathom how he might effectively run or ride a horse.

Ginny held her feet in the air and admired her long legs in Harry’s trousers. Harry admired them too.

“No,” he said when he realized he still hadn’t answered her question. She tipped her head back so her hair spilled over the edge of the mattress and grinned at him.

“But you want to.”

Harry snorted. “Hardly. Unless I can pretend to be deaf.” Harry did enjoy dancing, but he had no talent for small talk; he always wound up offending people either by staying cautiously silent, or daring to speak and ienvitably saying the wrong thing. He was glad his parents hadn’t tried to socialize him better—he’d enjoyed a quiet eccentric’s life in the country—but it had exacted a price.

“Mother says you have to go, or you’ll be seen as a recluse and the courts will declare you insane and choose a husband for you.”

Harry was outraged in at least three different ways. “Why not a wife?”

Ginny smiled at him again. “Oh, darling, let’s not kid ourselves.”

Harry’s cheeks burned. He crossed his arms, fingering the lace at the cuffs of the gown between his thumb and forefinger. “I suppose you have a point,” he allowed.

“I remember when we were kids, and we played husband and wife,” Ginny went on happily. “And I was always the husband, and you—who were never bossy otherwise—always gave me a very specific role—”

“Weasley,” Harry warned, reaching for his wand. “I _will_ hex you.”

“ —now, Ginny, you have black hair, and eyes like forks—”

“I _never_ _said forks,” Harry said, almost shouting._

__

“You did, more or less. ‘Shiny and silver as tablewear.’ You weren’t good at romantic metaphor yet.”

__

Harry pointed his wand at her. “Says _you_ ,” he cried, “who compared _my_ eyes to _toads_!” 

__

Shrieking with laughter, she dove off the bed to take shelter a half-second ahead of his stinging hex.

__

Harry supposed he would have to go to the party. He knew the local magistrate judges and didn’t trust their matchmaking-related judgment at all.

__

*

__

Harry did not have a crush on his godfather; he’d outgrown that long ago.

__

And he _never_ said anything about forks.

__

*

__

Since Sirius Black closed Grimmauld Place, society in the county had taken a significant hit. The Potters didn’t “do” parties, which left country gatherings in the village as the occupants’ sole recourse. As a result, attendance that evening exceeded Sirius’ expectations, but as he looked through the throngs of people pouring through his doors, looking for a certain dark head and glaring green eyes, he was continuously disappointed.

__

Remus had come. His wife Dora had a wicked sense of humor, and Sirius found himself distracted by a good round or two of verbal sparring with her while Remus looked on, bemused.

__

When Dora went to the refreshments table, Sirius asked about their son. Remus smiled with the ease of the lovesick and obliged him.

__

“You know, you ought to visit,” Remus said. “We’re just a few hours away by carriage.”

__

“I know that,” Sirius said. “I want to stay close to Godric’s Hollow though, just in case—”

__

Harry chose that moment to stroll through his doors, on the arm of a tall, pretty redhead who gave the surrounding crowds such a sharp, authoritative look, they instantly parted.

__

“In case . . . ?” Remus began, then followed the direction of Sirius’ besotted stare, and sighed. “Oh, I see.”

__

Sirius shot him a quick, probably-guilty look. “Do you?”

__

“I’m not surprised,” Remus said, sounding tired, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’ve always liked shiny things. And Harry is definitely that.”

__

“I’m— _shiny things_? What am I, a magpie?”

__

“Yes,” Remus said immediately. “Also a dog on a scent, so I won’t bother trying to convince you it’s a terrible idea. What does Harry say?”

__

“Hm?”

__

“When you propositioned him?”

__

“I did no such thing!”

__

Remus looked surprised for the first time in their exchange. He blinked.

__

“What?” Sirius demanded, his neck getting sore from the effort of not turning to track Harry in the crowd and stare at him. 

__

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve never known you not to immediately, and doggedly—”

__

“Okay, that metaphor is already tired.”

__

“—go after whatever you decide you want.” Remus searched his face. Sirius, frozen with a confusing anxiety, waited for him to find what he was looking for. Remus’ frown relaxed. “Oh, I see.”

__

“ _Do you_?”

__

“Yes. You’re really in love with him. And you think you might not be the best thing for him.”

__

“You can tell all of that from . . . ?”

__

“Well, I used a bit of Legilimens.”

__

“Remus!”

__

“You once gave me permission to use my magic to assist you in my sole and unquestioned judgment.”

__

“When we were _twelve_!”

__

Remus shrugged carelessly. “You never retracted it.”

__

Sirius pressed his lips together, then sighed. “How can you know what my thoughts mean, when I don’t?”

__

Remus patted his shoulder consolingly. “Emotions cloud the landscape of thought.”

__

Sirius sighed again. “That they do.” He gave into his impulse and turned to seek Harry, a ship adrift looking longingly at the lighthouse. Harry either hadn’t noticed Sirius or didn’t care; he was grinning down at the redheaded girl with a naked affection that made Sirius, who had never experienced jealousy before, suddenly and painfully homicidal.

__

“Don’t worry,” Remus murmured, apparently reading Sirius’ thoughts easily, this time even without Legilmens. “Harry’s known not to be, erm, interested in women.”

__

Sirius relaxed for a moment at that, just before a familiar young blond man in a glittering emerald waistcoat reached out for Harry’s hand, and pressed a lingering kiss against his knuckles.

__

Sirius shoved his wine glass into Remus’ hands so he could access his wand. “Pardon me, I have a cousin to whom I must reintroduce myself.”

__

__


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, I'm still here and there is no such thing as an abandoned fic!

If Harry could last more than five minutes without being reminded of his parents and nearly bursting into tears, he would have enjoyed the party. His friends did a brilliant job distracting him and possibly convincing everyone present that Harry was passionately heterosexual for Ginevra Weasley.

But then he’d hear a few wistful notes on the harp and think of his father, a gifted harpist with talents that far exceeded the young musician in the room. Or he’d see a lady brandish a fan coquettishly and remember his mother teaching him to do the same in her bedroom mirror, complete with fluttering eyelashes.

His emotions veered wildly from sorrow to gaiety, and every time they took a plummet, his friends redoubled their efforts. Bless them, but the only result was an increasingly unbearable lurching between the two extremes.

He was about to excuse himself when he glanced up and accidentally met the eye of Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy, alarmingly near and hand extended in such an air of expectation, Harry presented his own own on instant impulse.

Draco was taller than Harry remembered from their last meeting a year before but otherwise unchanged: he remained aggressively blond and perfumed in a way that confused Harry, like a fish who sees a lure along with the shadow of a hook.

“Harry Potter,” said Draco, all warmth and straight white teeth. “What a pleasure to see you.” His expression of delight melted instantly into one of grave solemnity as he brushed his plump pink lips over Harry’s knuckles. “I only regret that I cannot pause to congratulate you on how arresting you appear this evening, when I must instead offer my consolations on your unutterable loss.”

Oh, wow. Draco was even more ridiculous than Harry had remembered. He gazed at his peer with what he hoped wasn’t a totally vacant smile, searching for something to say to make this end. His friends seemed to be rendered equally speechless, the bastards. Wasn’t this exactly what Ginny had promised to armor him against?

“Perhaps,” Draco said with a suggestive twinkle in his eyes, extending his arm, elbow bent, toward Harry in invitation, “you would care to step out on the balcony, where we could reconnect in a quieter setting?”

Um, no, Harry did not care to reconnect with Draco at all, neither in the din of the ballroom nor the starry darkness of the balcony. But before he could arrive at words of declination that were sufficiently polite to avoid disgracing his name or starting a blood feud or whatever the implications might be of blatantly telling Draco Malfoy to get stuffed in the middle of a crowd of their peers— 

Harry’s godfather appeared.

Harry tried not to stare at Sirius, but it was very difficult, because Sirius was precisely as beautiful as Harry had remembered him to be. Probably his grief-struck brain wasn’t processing inputs reliably. Because Harry was no longer looking at Sirius through the lovesick eyes of a child, and also because Sirius had aged ten years since they’d last seen one another, and should therefore be looking hagard and old, not more vivid and dashing than in Harry’s most frequently revisited memories.

The sight of him filled Harry with instantaneous fury.

Not to mention instead of so much as glancing Harry’s way, Lord Black’s stare was fixed on Draco with unwavering intensity.

“Cousin!” he said with transparently false cheer, but with sufficient force and volume to startle even the implacable Draco into a brief startle—a slight widening of grey eyes that were the only similarity between the two men. Then he smiled coolly and gave Harry a wink before turning to extend his hand toward Sirius.

“Cousin,” he said drolly. “How remarkable to see you again. My, how long as it been? A decade?” He pretended not to notice the fact that Sirius had refused his hand with impressive composure, using his raised hand to brush back an invisible stray hair into his perfect coiffe. “Certainly, to look at you, you’ve traveled many miles and seen many sights, but you carry your signs of wear with dignity.”

Sirius’ eyes narrowed almost to slits, and he appeared alarmingly close to drawing his wand, if the angle of his elbow and the twitch of his fingers was any indication. And it likely was; Uncle Remus had taught Harry to read an opponent in their dueling lessons, and Harry trusted his skills of observation.

“I was just renewing my acquaintance with your godson,” Draco went on, turning deliberately back toward Harry while Sirius seethed. Harry knew that the two sides of the Black family didn’t get on, but was still startled by the absolute loathing on Sirius’ face. 

“You will do no such thing,” Sirius growled. Finally, he looked at Harry, but instead of feeling any satisfaction at the attention, Harry’s anger only redoubled when Sirius said, “ _ You _ will do no such thing, Harry.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to abandon his flimsy manners. “You can’t tell me what to do!” And with that, he did what he had been loathe to do moments ago, and took Draco’s arm.

The look on Sirius’ face filled him with intense satisfaction. For a moment.

Then that moment passed, and Harry had instant regret. He had to let himself be towed away by Draco Malfoy, after all, and pretend to listen while Draco prattled on about this and that, peppering Harry with subtle, light touches on every body part with which bodily contact was considered polite in the middle of a formal dance. It was like he’d practiced on a diagram, Harry thought, bemused when Draco’s hand brushed the small of his back, but absolutely no lower than his waist; his elbow, but not a hair higher where he might touch the forbidden bicep.

Honestly, society and manners and propriety were bizarre. His parents had had the right of it.

Oh, his parents. Just like that, Harry was filled with a rush of unhappiness that he didn’t even have to feign. He looked up at Draco with an apologetic smile.

“I’m not feeling well. I regret that I must excuse myself.” He forced the words out, but Draco though Draco appeared briefly annoyed, he also escorted Harry to the edge of the dancing with technical courtesy, and then Harry was able to escape down a quiet corridor, opening a door at random and finding himself in a moonlight-flooded room full of furniture draped in white sheets. He let out a relieved breath. A room no one used; perfect.

Harry drifted toward the uncovered windows, finding a surprisingly lovely view of the Blacks’ famously dangerous ancestral arboretum. A trio of whomping willows were close enough to the glass to writhe in frustration and take a few swings at Harry, sensing his closeness, but their branches fell well short of actually striking the grass. A swath of poisonous lichen, glowing iridescent in the dark, hedged the paving-stone path.

“Harry?”

Harry couldn’t mistake that voice. He turned, worrying his lip. “Uncle Remus. I’m sorry. I’m—well, hiding.”

Remus smiled, slipping through the shadows as the door closed softly behind him. He had his hands in his pockets and his bowtie was crooked. Harry felt a rush of camaraderie; it was good to remember he wasn’t the only one out of his element in this environment.

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Remus said quietly, touching Harry’s shoulder briefly as he came to stand beside him. “Are you hiding from the world at large? Or just the suitors?”

“Is there any difference?” Harry felt like everyone was out to marry him, for reasons that had nothing to do with anything but his name and fortune. It was exhausting, like a sparrow with an injured wing, being circled by hawks. He remembered Ginny’s warning and worried his lip again. “Is it true that the magistrate can declare me insane and choose a husband for me?”

Remus looked perfectly shocked for a second, then he laughed incredulously. “Where on Earth did you hear that?”

“Ginny,” Harry admitted. “That is, er, Ginevra Weasley.”

Remus sighed and shook his head. “I thought she was a sensible girl.”

“Well, she heard it from her mother.”

Remus and Harry exchanged rueful smiles.

“I guess it does seem a little extreme,” Harry admitted. “Besides, if the magistrate did try to marry me off, I would just—I don’t know, fake my own death.” He slouched against the window, shuddering. “Marriage, honestly. It sounds awful.” He sucked in a breath, hearing himself, and looked at Remus with his eyes wide. “I mean—for  _ you _ it seems really nice! I mean, I’m sure it’s great. Dora is great.” He rubbed his forehead and groaned. “Sorry. Merlin. I’m an arsehole.”

Remus chuckled, appearing unoffended, to Harry’s relief. “It’s alright if you’re not interested in marriage at the moment, you know. Especially not a ‘society’ marriage.” Remus gave a little shudder of his own. “Dora and I married for love, and against the advice of her entire family and to the horrified delight of the gossips. You must know that. There isn’t a comparison.”

Harry relaxed marginally. “Right.” He scuffed the polished toe of his leather dress shoe against the rug. “That sounds nice.” He scowled suddenly. “But I might not have that luxury, now that my  _ godfather _ is here to order me around.”

Remus’ smile disappeared and his expression turned very careful. “Is that what you think he means to do?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s not what I  _ think _ ! It’s what I know! He didn’t speak to me tonight until I dared to do something he didn’t approve of—God forbid I let Draco Malfoy walk me around the room without asking  _ his _ permission first.”

Remus was beginning to look amused. “That does seem very unreasonable of him.”

“It does!” Harry agreed, buoyed by Remus’ concurrence. “He’s horrible.”

“I’ve always thought so.”

Harry darted him a look. “But you’re still his friend.”

“Yes.”

“Dad always said there was nothing that could come between the two of you, so he wouldn’t bother to talk you out of it.”

Remus smiled again, but this time it was a little bit sad. “Well, Sirius didn’t break my heart all by himself. But that’s a story for another time.”

Harry, dumbstruck, had no idea what to say. It didn’t matter, because Remus was already leaving, giving Harry’s shoulder a pat in parting.

“Keep that in mind, Harry. We’re all complicit in matters of our own hearts, yes?”

And with that, he left Harry alone in the moonlit window, the whomping willows whipping impotently, the buzz of the party a low hum Harry had to strain to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, I'm still here and there is no such thing as an abandoned fic!


End file.
